A Terrible Something
by Squilf
Summary: (... or, what happens when DS Justin Ripley snogs a senior officer in front of about half the London constabulary.) John steps out of the back of a lorry punched open with bullet holes with something broken in his eyes and petrol soaked into his coat, dripping from his eyelashes, his fingers. And Justin doesn't know if he hates him or loves him. (Except, he kind of does.)


**A Terrible Something**

**(or, what happens when DS Justin Ripley snogs a senior officer in front of about half the London constabulary)**

* * *

Nicholas Milberry dies under a faded white sky.

John Luther doesn't.

(But that's not the point. The point is, he nearly does.)

He steps out of the back of a lorry punched open with bullet holes with something broken in his eyes and petrol soaked into his coat, dripping from his eyelashes, his fingers. He walks away, strides long, head high. Always strong, always proud. Even now. And Justin doesn't know if he hates him or loves him.

(He never has. When he met John he felt a kind of ache in his chest that hasn't gone away. It's familiar to him as the taste of coffee, or the way his bed started to feel empty one day, or the smell of _that_ jumper at the bottom of his wardrobe, or the creases under John's eyes. It hurts. He never wants it to go away.)

He looks at John, and something terrible boils up in his stomach and scalds his throat. _You stupid man_, he thinks, and runs towards him.

"_You_," he says, stops in front of him, "Oh, _John_…"

John looks down at him, and his face is split with exhaustion and relief and something small and fond. (Justin thinks that, for all that John is ragged edges and bloody fingers, there's something in him that's beautiful. He thinks that John must have the heart of a lion. It's the only thing strong enough to hold him together.) And then the terrible something strangles its way out of Justin's mouth and runs across his lips.

"Don't fucking do that to me again," he says, and he grabs the lapels of John's coat and drags him forward and kisses him.

It's desperate and needy and fast, and when he pulls away he's breathless. And then he just stares at John, because fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"It's, er," he begins, rubbing the back of his neck, "I mean, I – I'm glad you're alright, an' all."

John raises his eyebrows, smiles a little.

"I noticed."

Then his hands are on Justin's, and Justin realises he hasn't let go of his coat.

"Justin," says John, and takes his hands, moves them down to the space between their waists, "It's alright."

"I'm sorry, I just – you nearly – I…"

John gives his hands a quick squeeze.

"I know."

"Oh God," says Justin, "Are they all staring?"

"Well, you did give them something to stare at."

"Don't," says Justin, and laughs despite himself.

John looks at him, thoughtful, like a secret. Justin doesn't know if he likes it. He takes a breath, lets go.

"We should, er," he says, and gestures vaguely behind him.

John nods, and follows him back. (And if this is the first time John has followed, not lead, then Justin doesn't mention it. It's been that kind of day.)

Schenk's face is the same emotionless, papery mask it always has been, but there's crumples of relief across his brow, and amusement at the corner of his mouth.

"DCI Luther," he says, "I was going to congratulate you, but it seems I've been beaten to it."

Justin bites his lip, blushes.

"I'll just," he says, and he doesn't even know what it is he's going to do, but he walks away so he can do it away from brilliant detectives who he wants to kill, preferably with kisses.

* * *

(It turns out to be locking himself inside a police car and having an existential crisis in the back seat.) He's interrupted by someone knocking on the window. Justin sighs, winds down the window. It's Erin.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Yeah, fine."

Erin leans over, hands braced against the doorframe.

"_That_ explained a lot," she says.

"What explained a lot?"

"Listen, Justin, I get it, I do. Sometimes your feelings can get in the way of judgement. I've been there, we all have. But a bent copper's a bent copper, whether you're in love with him or not."

"John is _not_ a bent copper!"

"Yeah, well, you would say that."

"Because it's _true_."

"Maybe to you. But we don't _all_ do as we're told and follow Luther around like a good boy."

"I'm not his dog."

"Does he tell you that?"

Erin leans in.

"I _am_ going to find out the truth. And if I find out that you're what nearly cost me my job, then God fucking help you, Justin Ripley."

* * *

He finds John later, sitting in the back of an ambulance, shock blanket around his shoulders. He looks tired, but it's something more than the Milberrys, something deeper. There's something else. There always is with him.

"Here," says Justin, and passes him a polystyrene cup of coffee.

John takes it, holds out the shock blanket in return.

"You look like you need it more than I do," he says.

Justin takes it, sits next to John and pulls it around himself. It smells of petrol. (That's what John tasted like, earlier, he remembers.) The sun's starting to go down, streetlamps flickering on, and the cold's drawing in.

"We ought to get you out of those clothes," Justin says.

John nearly chokes on his coffee.

"I meant that you're a health and safety hazard," says Justin, but he's smiling.

"I thought Gray was the fire warden."

"Well, she is, but I do like to wear the coat sometimes. You know, on the weekends."

John laughs, and Justin finds himself laughing too. And then they stop, and it's just them, nothing between them. It's awkward. Justin looks away, up at the sky, blotted with the red light of the setting sun, like bloodstains. He sighs, leans against the side of the ambulance.

"Listen," he says, "I'm sorry. About earlier. I shouldn't have. It was unprofessional and it won't happen again and –"

"Justin. I've had enough drama for one day, mate."

Justin looks at him, gives in. He wants to lean into John's warmth, wants to tuck his head under his chin and fist his hand in his coat and curl up in him. (Erin's right. He is Luther's dog.)

"Yeah," he says, "Yeah, you're right, sir."

He gets up, gives John the shock blanket back.

"I'll see if I can't get you some clothes," he says, and turns to leave.

"Justin?"

Justin stops, twists around to face John.

"Thank you," John says.

And the terrible something crawls onto Justin's shoulder, and whispers in his ear what to say.

_I love you. I really love you_.

He doesn't say it.

(But that's not the point. The point is, he nearly does.)

He just smiles, the kind of smile that's beautiful even when you're broken on the inside, and says, "Anytime, sir."

Because, once you know what it is, love isn't so terrible at all.

Even if it is unreturned.


End file.
